On July 2, USA Today reported that more than 20 former employees of a Georgia Alzheimer’s care center are facing dozens of criminal charges after a three-month state investigation uncovered allegations of cruel treatments of patients.

The cruelty ranged from physical abuse – slapping patients and throwing water on them – to outright neglect and financial exploitation. Other abuse included shackling patients to their beds with sheets and ‘double diapering’ so the staff wouldn’t have to change soiled diapers so often.

As it turns out, various staff members had prior felony convictions that included voluntary manslaughter and identity theft.

So what does this have to do with my mother?

My mom was a dynamo. Yet, as soon as she was moved to a nursing home, my mom – this firecracker of a woman – became docile and acquiescent. At first I was confounded, but then I realized that she instinctively knew that she should not make waves if she wanted to be treated well. But there were two incidents that shook me to my core.

It seemed to be just an ordinary day. My mom was sitting in a chair in her room and I was singing to her. An orderly came in to gather trash. When my mom saw him, she started to whimper and put her hands across her breasts as though she were trying to protect them. The man quickly exited as I assured her she was fine, that she was safe…but was she?

I spoke to the nursing home administration, but they assured me was just a random incident. Still, I wondered…

During a visit a few days later, the orderly returned. Again my mother covered her breasts, but this time her whimper turned into a primal scream which drew the attention of staff members. After calming my mother down, I again spoke to the administration saying I was concerned there might have been inappropriate contact from the man who entered her room. I insisted that this orderly never again come into my mother’s room. The head of staff reluctantly agreed and, to my knowledge, that was the end of it.

But who knows? This is the fear of leaving a loved one in a facility. You don’t know what is happening once you leave. If you criticize the food or mention that no one has combed your mom’s hair, will they take it out on her once you have left? With Alzheimer’s, the patient can’t relate the details of a terrifying incident. You can only imagine, and what you imagine can be devastating.

So when I read about the unconscionable abuse at the Georgia facility, I remembered my mom’s terrified face, and the details came tumbling back to me.

And what retribution would I suggest for any person who abused or took advantage of an elderly person who has no means of self-defense? Well, I haven’t ruled out capital punishment.

If you suspect that your loved one may be a victim of abuse, there are people who can help. Visit theNational Center on Elder Abusefor more information and to locate resources near you.

]]>http://blog.aarp.org/2013/07/19/was-my-mom-abused/feed/0For Mom, My Heroine, on Mother’s Dayhttp://blog.aarp.org/2013/05/12/for-mom-my-heroine-on-mothers-day/
http://blog.aarp.org/2013/05/12/for-mom-my-heroine-on-mothers-day/#commentsSun, 12 May 2013 13:20:20 +0000http://blog.aarp.org/?p=46660My mother had a cleft palate. It was fixed when she was three years-old, and you could never tell anything was wrong by looking at her, but it left her with two impediments: her speech and her mother.

Because of my mom’s speech impediment, my grandmother told my mom she would probably never get married. Really? Is that the way you bolster your child’s self-confidence? Maybe she thought she was protecting her daughter from the harsh realities of life. To me, it felt like my grandmother was priming my mother for failure. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so judgmental. I mean, it is Mother’s Day and my grandmother was a mother. So maybe my grandmother had a tough life – it’s possible (or maybe more like probable, since she was always an unhappy, bitter person…but that’s for another time).

So clearly my mom did get married, though not before her mother convinced her to say that she was ten years younger than she was. It wasn’t until after she died that I discovered that she wasn’t six years younger than my dad; rather she was four years older. That explained why we never really saw her cousins, aunts and uncles. This was a tough secret to keep. But keep it she did. Heck, with those tight lips, she could have worked for The Manhattan Project.

As for me, I never heard her speech impediment. I mean, I guess she was a little nasal, but that’s all I knew so it sounded fine to me. And it sure didn’t stop my mom. She was a fighter, the ultimate survivor. To prove it, she became a public speaker. The first time she took me to hear her speak, she told me, “When I first start to speak, you will hear tittering in the room. Then, after a minute they’ll start listening to what I’m saying. Then, like that…” she would snap her fingers, “… I’ll have them.” And it happened every time. What a gutsy lady my mom was.

My mom went on to become a powerhouse. Among other things, she was President of the Garden State Ballet and New Jersey President of the Multiple Sclerosis Society. JFK even credited her with winning New Jersey for him and we all went to his Inaugural Ball. And my grandmother saw it all – attending every event at which my mom was honored.

My mom was invincible. Nothing could bring her down. Or so I thought. But then came something she was no match for: Alzheimer’s. I watched as this scrappy, heroic, lioness of a woman was brought to her knees, and day by day, month by month, year by year, vanished into the unforgiving chasm of Alzheimer’s – just as she had watched her mother do the same.

My mom died 20 years ago. Surely, I thought, by the time I could get Alzheimer’s, there will be a cure, or a way to manage it like HIV/AIDS. But I was wrong. So now it is my turn to do battle, but not with the disease. The disease will always win. No, I have to do battle with Congress to allot funding for research to defeat this equal-opportunity, Democratic/Republican/Independent/Tea Party killer.

So I’m fighting for you, Mom, for your memory, for me, for my kids and their kids and every generation to come so they can live the full life they deserve and proudly carry forward the genes of the valiant woman you were.

]]>http://blog.aarp.org/2013/05/12/for-mom-my-heroine-on-mothers-day/feed/0The Lady with All the Answershttp://blog.aarp.org/2013/02/12/the-lady-with-all-the-answers/
http://blog.aarp.org/2013/02/12/the-lady-with-all-the-answers/#commentsTue, 12 Feb 2013 20:16:54 +0000http://blog.aarp.org/?p=44047Dear Abby: I have always wanted to have my family history traced, but I can’t afford to spend a lot of money to do it. Have you any suggestions? – M. J. B. in Oakland, Calif.

Dear M. J. B.: Yes. Run for a public office.

Such was the incisive wit of Pauline Friedman Phillips, known to millions as Dear Abby. Affectionately nicknamed “Popo” by friends, Dear Abby was the advice maven of a generation – or rather, generations.

Dear Abby: Are birth control pills deductible? — Bertie

Dear Bertie: Only if they don’t work.

Admittedly not an expert in the field of psychology, she had a PhD in common sense.

Dear Abby: Our son married a girl when he was in the service. They were married in February and she had an 8 1/2-pound baby girl in August. She said the baby was premature. Can an 8 1/2-pound baby be this premature? – Wanting to Know

Dear Wanting: The baby was on time. The wedding was late. Forget it.

Dear Abby became part of the American lexicon. She was referenced in The Brady Bunch, Three’s Company, My Big Fat Greek Wedding and Dexter. Most impressively – to me, anyway – she even had a cameo appearance on Mr. Ed. I mean, when you can clear up the problems of a talking horse, then you’re cooking with gas. And that ain’t hay. (Sorry).

Dear Abby: My wife sleeps in the raw. Then she showers, brushes her teeth and fixes our breakfast – still in the buff. We’re newlyweds and there are just the two of us, so I suppose there’s really nothing wrong with it. What do you think? – Ed

Dear Ed: It’s O.K. with me. But tell her to put on an apron when she’s frying bacon.

Dear Abby had a profound influence on America. Before the Internet, Dr. Ruth, and Dr. Phil, the column spoke to us about prejudice, love and sex. Through the years she evolved: when faced with questions about homosexuality, she counseled tolerance; initially anti-divorce, she recognized the need if a couple had no alternative – particularly when it came to spousal abuse. 1,400 newspapers printed her advice. Here is perhaps my favorite column:

Dear Abby: Two men who claim to be father and adopted son just bought an old mansion across the street and fixed it up. We notice a very suspicious mixture of company coming and going at all hours – blacks, whites, Orientals, women who look like men and men who look like women. This has always been considered one of the finest sections of San Francisco, and these weirdos are giving it a bad name. How can we improve the neighborhood? – Nob Hill Residents

Dear Nob Hill Residents: You could move.

Whereas Ann Landers gave homey, carefully thought out advice, Dear Abby was known for her pithy witticisms.

Dear Abby: What’s the difference between a wife and a mistress? -Bess

Dear Bess: Night and Day.

And so you figure that a mind like that could never be less than razor sharp.

In the 1990s, a woman wrote to Abby questioning why people ignored her and her husband when they discovered he had Alzheimer’s, acting as though the disease didn’t even exist.

Abby responded: “Although there have been warnings that it was coming for years, the Alzheimer’s epidemic is here now, and millions more families will be touched by this progressive – and ultimately fatal – disease.”

Abby wrote her last column in 2000.In 2003, Abby’s family, along with an anonymous donor, contributed a total of $10 million to the Mayo Clinic for its Alzheimer’s research. The facility was renamed the Abigail Van Buren Alzheimer’s Disease Research Clinic.

Dear Abby: My boyfriend is going to be 20 years old next month. I’d like to give him something nice for his birthday. What do you think he’d like? -Carol

Dear Carol: Never mind what he’d like, give him a tie.

In January 2013, Abby (“Popo”) died after a ten year battle with Alzheimer’s.

]]>http://blog.aarp.org/2013/02/12/the-lady-with-all-the-answers/feed/0The Sexy Goddesshttp://blog.aarp.org/2013/01/14/the-sexy-goddess/
http://blog.aarp.org/2013/01/14/the-sexy-goddess/#commentsMon, 14 Jan 2013 14:00:30 +0000http://blog.aarp.org/?p=43252Rita Hayworth was a dazzler. Women wanted to be her; men wanted to be with her.

She was a graceful and electric dancer. Her mother was in the Ziegfeld Follies, but wanted her daughter to act; her father, a renowned dancer, wanted her to dance. They both got their way.

Margarita Carmen Cansino was born in Brooklyn in 1918. In 1937, feeling that her name typecast her, she dyed her brown tresses a blazing red and became Rita Hayworth. She was on her way to fame, fortune and a life in the sun.

In 1987 Rita Hayworth died of complications from Alzheimer’s. But it was an undiagnosed Alzheimer’s. Rita appeared unkempt in public, slurred her words and couldn’t remember lines in a script. She was accused of being an alcoholic. The former Sex Goddess was dismissed as a pathetic has-been. Three years after her death, doctors diagnosed the true cause.

Even today, Alzheimer’s goes undiagnosed far too often as smart people with symptoms hide out and families join in denial. It’s time for all of us to come out from under the shadows and take this disease head on.

Presently, there are 5.4 million victims with the disease. And then there are the caregivers -mostly aging spouses and economically stressed children – providing what amounts to $210 billion in unpaid care, and suffering from incomparable exhaustion and relentless economic fear. They are facing down their own fiscal cliff. And yet we are cutting funds for medical research at a time when the dollars should be directed to research to find a cure.

Rita Hayworth was one of the lucky ones. In the last years of her life, her daughter, the wonderful Princess Yasmin Aga Kahn, took her into her apartment and nursed her mother until her death. Rita was only 68-years-old.

A shameless rogue with a conscience that must have been surgically removed at birth, “Dallas” character JR Ewing was envied, loved, despised, almost killed, and yet he was impossible to resist.

No one could have played him with such magnificent relish – an irresistible villain – like Larry Hagman. This was a man who embraced life with a joyous sense of abandon: he rode a Harley-Davidson wearing a chicken suit, made love flying a plane, put bourbon on his cornflakes.

The major difference between JR and Larry was that everyone loved Larry.

The viewing audience was obsessed with JR. When, in a brilliant season cliff-hanger, JR was shot, the world was fixated on the answer to “Who shot JR?” The question was featured on t-shirts, key chains, and news shows, as bookies took bets on the answer. Not to be outdone, during the Presidential election, the Republicans even accused the Democrats of shooting JR. On November 21, 1980, people in 57 countries tuned in to find out the answer.

Larry Hagman loved the character, the fame, the absurdity of it all. But what he loved most in life was his wife, Maj. He met Maj Axelsson, a Swedish dress designer, when he was in London. They married in 1954. 58 years wedded in Hollywood – who ever heard if that. They were a good bet for inclusion in the Guinness Book of World Records.

And it was a good marriage – a deeply loving couple. So when Maj was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Hagman was devastated. The woman who had made a happy home for him and their two children, who went everywhere with him (Maj was no fool – she saw women throw themselves at her husband), began to descend into the hideous, unforgiving disease that currently has a choke-hold on 5.4 million people. Alzheimer’s does not give dispensations for the rich and famous.

Like any other caretaker, Larry knew Maj needed constant care. When it became too much for him to handle alone, he sold their mansion and moved Maj and a full-time staff of nurses to a care facility in Santa Monica near the ocean. Hagman bought an apartment nearby so he could be close and visit her regularly (this is when it pays off to have funds). But no matter how much money he had, nothing could reverse her situation.

“I miss her dreadfully,” Hagman said in an interview in 2011. A nurse told him that Maj forgets he has been there as soon as he leaves. It devastated him. “She is the love of my life.”

No one expected JR Ewing to be blindsided by cancer. But Larry Hagman was. And yet, on his deathbed, he talked about taking care of Maj.

Larry Hagman’s favorite JR Ewing line was, “Once you get rid of integrity, the rest is a piece of cake.” Maybe that was because to say that line convincingly, Hagman showed great acting skill.

Although cancer is the official reason for Hagman’s death, friends say it was really the result of a broken heart from losing Maj.

]]>http://blog.aarp.org/2012/12/11/jr-will-never-die/feed/0I Must Have a Puppyhttp://blog.aarp.org/2012/10/24/i-must-have-a-puppy/
http://blog.aarp.org/2012/10/24/i-must-have-a-puppy/#commentsWed, 24 Oct 2012 19:08:35 +0000http://blog.aarp.org/?p=39745It occurs to me that my mother never told us some basics about what she wanted should she ever have Alzheimer’s. True, few people think in those terms, but since both my grandmother and mother had Alzheimer’s, there’s a good chance I will be next. So, here’s my first list for my husband, daughter and son:

I must have a puppy to lick me and stay by my side and think everything I do is wonderful.

Hair: I must always be a blond with shoulder length hair. No pixie cut. Only Mia Farrow and Peter Pan can carry that off.

Pink coral blush to light up my face.

No chipped finger or toe nails. Once a week I want a fresh coat of Jungle Red.

Teeth must be flossed. My teeth have to be kept in pristine shape. If – heaven forbid – I need a root canal or even a cavity filled – don’t forget the Novocain.

A pearl necklace is a must. I want to look like a lady.

I would like a weekly kosher hot dog with mustard, relish and sauerkraut.

At least once-a-day say, “My you look thin. Can I get you a Snickers bar?”

I love my iPod. Make sure I can listen to it.

Speaking of music – I love Broadway tunes. Feel free to throw in “Rhapsody in Blue.”

Blue and red are great colors for me. I don’t want to wear any funereal black. Except for slacks since black is slenderizing.

To my kids: No Bimbo. If Dad takes up with one, please do not let her in the same room with me.

Move me to LA. I love the weather and will have no need to stay in the East to go sledding.

Play movies I love (list to follow). When in doubt, a good chick flick will do. Nothing scary. I’ve paid my dues with action flicks.

No smoking. Even if a nurse smokes outside, I can smell it. I’m a nicotine free kind of gal.

Daughter only: Pluck all long chin hairs.

Make sure my grandkids visit me.

Keep working on a cure. I want to hear the words, “Alzheimer’s is over. We’re bringing you back!”

Photo Credit: Trish Vradenburg

]]>http://blog.aarp.org/2012/10/24/i-must-have-a-puppy/feed/0Stepping into My Own Prime Timehttp://blog.aarp.org/2012/10/02/stepping-into-my-own-prime-time/
http://blog.aarp.org/2012/10/02/stepping-into-my-own-prime-time/#commentsTue, 02 Oct 2012 15:30:16 +0000http://blog.aarp.org/?p=36701For years I was a sitcom writer; my shows were always in prime time. I have been writing voices for Designing Women, Family Ties, Kate and Allie. Yup, that’s me – except not really. They have been what Julia Sugarbaker would assert on her soapbox, what Alex Keaton would wisecrack to his way-too-liberal parents, what Kate would say supportively to Allie. I would give them lines, but they were never my voice. That’s the trick to writing for others on TV: you write in the characters’ voices.

When my husband, George, and I started USAgainstAlzheimer’s, the tables turned. My husband is a gifted public speaker, so discussing a subject about which he is passionate and dedicated to changing – finding a cure or way to avert Alzheimer’s by 2020 – is his gift. Then there is me, the person for whom the phrase “deer in the headlights” was created. I am panic-stricken when I am asked to speak in public. I am guessing a lot of you can relate to this.

But apparently our cause is more important to me than my fear because when we were invited onto FOX News Sunday with Chris Wallace to discuss USAgainstAlzheimer’s, I jumped at it. We need this to be a national priority; for victims and caregivers to know they are not alone; for all of us to join our political movement. That is our mission. We need numbers.

Think back to the beginning of HIV/AIDS when victims and family were embarrassed to even talk about the condition. In a very real sense, that is where we are now. The families of Alzheimer’s don’t want to admit their loved one has the disease for fear that others will now think of their loved one as demented and ruin the memory of that person. But the big difference is that the victim can’t talk about the disease because that’s what happens with this disease. So we have to testify for them. We are their voices. We have no choice.

So I offer up this video of our appearance on FOX News with Chris Wallace. Chris’s father was the incomparable Mike Wallace of 60 Minutes. My husband was his lawyer at CBS. They were also friends. Mike was amazing. And then, like so many people – amazing or just an ordinary Joe – Mike Wallace died from complications of Alzheimer’s.

Photo Credit: Fox News

]]>http://blog.aarp.org/2012/10/02/stepping-into-my-own-prime-time/feed/0I Am the Alzheimer’s Partyhttp://blog.aarp.org/2012/08/27/i-am-the-alzheimers-party/
http://blog.aarp.org/2012/08/27/i-am-the-alzheimers-party/#commentsMon, 27 Aug 2012 18:30:21 +0000http://blog.aarp.org/?p=33110The Alzheimer’s Party. Haven’t heard of it? Well, you ought to familiarize yourself with it; there is an election in less than three months and our existence may well depend on it. Is Alzheimer’s an atom bomb that will destroy us? Well, in a way, yes. And this is our chance to disarm it. Together, those with Alzheimer’s and those who care for them are a party of 20 million strong. As the Alzheimer’s Party, we cannot be ignored.

Are you older than 66? Are you a boomer? Are you younger than that? If you answered “yes” to any of these questions then you got lucky when Congressman Paul Ryan was chosen as Mitt Romney’s running mate. I’m not saying this because I’m a Paul Ryan fan (because as an Alzheimer’s Party member, I’m not). I’m saying that you got lucky because the Ryan candidacy will put the discussion of Medicare/Medicaid on the front burner.

Congressman Ryan’s plan involves changing Medicare in big ways. To be fair, there will be a change in Medicare as we know it no matter who wins. We’ll discuss the difference over the next few months. But with the Ryan plan, Medicare would no longer act as an insurance program that directly pays medical bills for seniors who are now 65. Instead, seniors would receive a fixed subsidy. The reality is that that subsidy would undoubtedly be worth less than the health care would cost, and ultimately will not cover the soaring prices of medicine. Senior citizens will have to find money to make up the difference. Try doing that on a fixed income. Try doing that for a loved one with Alzheimer’s.

But why should people in all age brackets be concerned about this change? The obvious answer is that all of us will eventually, if we are lucky, become old people. But let’s face it, how much do you think in those terms when you’re 30 or 40? More and more is my guess. Because as the population gets older and lives longer, the more likely they are to get Alzheimer’s -an underreported 5.4 million people already have been diagnosed – and counting. And, the more likely it is for a 30- or 40-year-old woman to be raising a family and taking care of an aging parent at the same time. With all the money it takes to care for a parent with Alzheimer’s, guess whose teenagers and tweens won’t be able to go on vacations or get that new iPod they want because their parents are socked in with bills they never anticipated?

What’s more, given that 66% of those with Alzheimer’s are women and the preponderance of caregivers are women, guess which gender will be losing so many of the gains they made in the workforce in the last 50 years as a result of this disease?

So perhaps you will understand why I feel this election is so important for both my husband and me (a Republican and a Democrat) who are now staunch supporters of the Alzheimer’s Party.

It’s easy to pick Sargent Shriver out of a picture. The rule of thumb is this: if ninety-nine people look solemn and there is only one person smiling, that person is inevitably Sargent Shriver. And if those people in the picture could come alive for, say, ten minutes, you could come back and find ninety-nine more people smiling. So what does he know that the others don’t? He knew how to embrace the joy of life. In short, he was contagious.

What a gift.

Mark Shriver’s moving book, A Good Man: Rediscovering My Father, Sargent Shriver, is a deeply personal, sensitively written, immensely loving testimonial to his father. Sure, Sargent Shriver was known for getting things done: from being the driving force behind the creation of The Peace Corps to founding the Job Corps, VISTA, Upward Bound, and the architect of President Johnson’s War on Poverty. He then went on to being the American Ambassador to France and ran, unsuccessfully, for U.S. Vice President (“I always wanted to be private and anonymous,” he once quipped. “That’s why in 1972 I ran with George McGovern.”) As devoted as he was to all of these vital social programs, all of them took a back seat in importance when it came to his family.

It started with his wife, Eunice Kennedy Shriver, whom he courted for seven years before they were married. And he continued courting her until the day she died. One time, in their later years, while sitting at the dining room table Sarge looked adoringly at his wife and said, “Look at those wrinkles on your mother’s face. Have you ever seen a more beautiful woman in your life?”

And that love was also heaped upon his children as well. Every night he hand-wrote a generous note to each of his five children telling they how proud he was of them (calling each one “numero uno”) and how much he and their mother loved each of them. Imparting neither guilt nor negative judgment, he was accepting and ego boosting. He loved for what could be accomplished and accepted everything as God’s plan.

That was the secret to his success as a husband, a parent, a public servant, a friend. Sargent Shriver walked with God. An exceedingly devout man who went to Mass every morning of his life, he was a man who lived by three tenents: faith, hope and love. He was an easy father to love, but a tough parent to emulate.

In 1992, Mark noticed that his dad was forgetting things. Not a big deal at first – Mark’s wife’s name at their engagement party. Well, he figured, anyone can forget a name. Mark’s initial reaction was to repeat the pattern of millions of family members of Alzheimer’s victims: denial and repression. And that can work for years. Until it doesn’t. By late 2000, the erratic behavior, the forgetting, the wandering had begun to pose a real problem. Mark knew that he had to have his father tested.

“Alzheimer’s,” Dr. McHugh told the Mark gently. The family didn’t understand the complexities of the disease. They did, however know the endgame. And the survival rate: zero.

In 2004, Sargent Shriver was one of the first well-known persons to announce that he had Alzheimer’s. It was very brave and very rare. Even now, victims of the disease and their families don’t want to admit they have the disease.

A particularly poignant moment in the book is when, during one of Sarge’s rare lucid moments, Mark asks, “Dad, you know you are losing your mind. How does that make you feel? How are you doing with that?”

“I’m doing the best I can with what God has given me,” he responds.

This is who Sargent Shriver is: a deeply devout, optimistic, good man. And the reader respects him for being that person. Sargent Shriver has a clear through line in life. His compassion, his devotion and his optimism never wavered. He didn’t have to die to meet God because God walked with him.

My only argument with this book is that Mark Shriver rarely cuts himself some slack. He feels as though he wasn’t there enough for his dad. The truth is that he and his brother, Timmy, were the only kids who lived close to their parents. My husband and I co-chaired The National Alzheimer’s Gala for nine years. Sarge came to at least five of them and always with Mark. He never turned us down. He and his dad showed up for this event – even if it was just to have him waive and joyously smile. They both showed up for life. To my mind, Mark Shriver’s book should be titled Two Good Men.

This last weekend was my mom’s birthday. She would have been 100 years old. Or maybe 90. It was hard to tell with her. What my mom had told me when I was growing up was that she married at the young age of 18 – straight out of high school. I had no reason to doubt it since she was my mom and, of course, she told the truth.

When my Uncle Irving, a mean spirited, bitter man, was at a family event he said to my brother, “…And another thing I resent about your mother is that she always said I was the older sibling and she was the younger one.” Now there are plenty of things that are up for grabs in a family – who was the favorite, who was better looking – but usually you know who was already there when you were born.

Now a few things made sense. My father was a Judge and he had a few documents changed to make my mom younger: her passport, her driver’s license, her social security card (you could do that back in the day…well, back in his day). As I looked at her age on some documents, I realized she could have been my older sister; on one, my twin.

Soon after my uncle’s revelation, my mom started her gradual descent into the chasm of Alzheimer’s. The last time I took her to lunch, on her 67th or 77th birthday, she looked as stunning as ever. My mom was a fashion plate, always wearing her trademark pearls and chic hat, this one a wine-colored fedora. Losing words here and there, she was still coherent and charming. Ordering her favorite apple pie with cheddar cheese on top, I figured she was in a non-resistant mood. I asked her how old she was, gently dropping that Irving had said he was younger than she. Not even bothering to contradict that statement, she asked why it was so important for me to know. Age was, she pointed out, just numbers.

No, I argued, I needed to know because she was my mom and I would naturally be a reflection of her in so many ways, including any illnesses, and I wanted to estimate how old I would be if anything happened to me. I should have known, I suppose, that that possibility was too much to handle. Was she responsible for what happened to me? Was her mother, who suffered from senility – that generation’s Alzheimer’s – responsible for the illness that was engulfing her mind now? A dark cloud washed over her face. It was too much for her to even consider.

“Oh, who cares? You’re right, only numbers. What I know you have given me is endless love and security.”

She smiled, relieved. A burden was lifted from her troubled mind.

In the years to come, I watched my mother vanish into the unforgiving abyss of Alzheimer’s, and her secrets and her memories went with her. All the things I should have asked – Did you go to college? What, really, was your relationship like with Daddy? Did you have chicken pox, neuropathy, allergies? How old were you when I was born? What kind of a kid was I? She probably told me most of this when I was growing up, but like most kids I didn’t listen.

As you watch a parent suffering the indignities of Alzheimer’s, it is often impossible to remember the good times. But as for me, I still remember so many of them. That much this killer has not been able to destroy.

So happy birthday, Mom. Whether it’s 90 or 100 or 110, who cares? I still remember your fierce devotion, your caring, and your endless love. Those qualities are ageless.